


Where You Stand

by samalander



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M, Pegging, Post Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint makes a call Natasha doesn't like. She makes him pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where You Stand

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fault of someone else, I'll let you know who when i figure it out.
> 
> With thanks, as always, to [enigma731](http://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/) for the beta and the asskicking.
> 
> Title from Stephen Kellogg and the Sixers' "Days":  
>  _Let's break it down to a level I can understand,_  
>  You be the woman and I will be your man  
> When you're feeling it, you just know where you stand  
> And I walk with my head held high when I can  
> Not everyday's so easy and they're tough to plan  
> When the good day comes, you've got to do as the good day demands

They're barely through the door of her apartment, the bolthole she keeps in Tribeca, sweat drying slick and salty beneath their uniforms, when Natasha spins and grabs Clint by the front of his suit, slamming his back against the wall.

He's been expecting that, deserves it really, but he counters anyway, using the momentum to ricochet back, bending her wrists and leveraging her arm behind her back. He spins her, gets her face against the wall with his considerable bulk canceling out her considerable skill, before she has time to make a sound.

"Something you want to say?" he growls in her ear, and the shudder slides down her spine to the place where her ass is pressed against his crotch. She moves to grind against his hardness, because that's what she does, Natasha, she takes your body and conspires to use it against you.

He shoves his hips back, applying more pressure to her arm and leaning in so the ghost of his breath tickles her neck.

"Use your words, Natasha," he commands, and she growls, low and feral, twisting her wrists against his grip.

"You're an asshole," she chokes out, and it's the signal, it's what he was waiting for – the fight. He made a call in the field, told Coulson she needed extraction, and she'd disagreed.

Probably, all things being equal, she would have been just fine being taken onto a boat by six armed men – he's seen her fight bigger and better armed assailants, but not with steel handcuffs on and not with an arm binder. Her skills are rooted in flexibility, in speed, and these guys had known that. They'd been prepared for the Black Widow. Clint is her partner, he's fought back-to-back with her for years. He didn't think she should have to take out six men and swim to safety, so he had taken the shot.

She's furious. Because she could have taken them or because there was more information to extract or because it will tip the mark they're working that she's a target, because six men disappearing in the New York Harbor is pretty suspicious. But that isn't their problem – their problem is staying alive this night, and fighting again the next.

"You're alive," he hisses, and she bucks against his grip again.

"You know what it's like?" he asks, leaning back in to taste the salt-sweet sheen on her neck, to smell the gunpowder and gasoline and fight she stores up like perfume. "What it's like when I have to watch you throw yourself into danger?"

Natasha twists her wrist, breaking his hold, and turns in his arms. She balls her fist in his shirt and pulls him close enough to kiss. "Yes," she growls against his lips. "I know exactly what it's like, you condescending fuck."

Clint closes the space between them, seals his mouth over hers and kisses her. She kisses like she's starving for it, like the only thing that will bring her salvation is his mouth. Her hands are wicked, one of them tracing the line of his pants. His own hands have a will of their own, one snaking up to the zipper on her uniform to tug it down.

"Fuck you," he growls, as she breaks the kiss. He tastes blood as her teeth tear at his lip, opening the old wound there.

She places both hands firmly on his chest and shoves him so he stumbles back, freeing her from the cage of his arms. "No," she hisses. "I think tonight, I'm gonna fuck you."

His knees go weak at the harsh surety of her words, and his mouth falls open as she walks away, sliding out of her boots and letting her uniform fall in a puddle on the floor. She disappears into the bedroom as he stands there, trembling with fury and lust.

"Come on, stud," her voice floats out, poison and promise. "Don't you wanna suck my cock?"

Clint doesn't think, he just acts, his hands finding releases and laces and buttons on his clothes, shedding them like breadcrumbs to mark his trail to the bedroom. She's already got the harness on when he gets there, the stark black straps heavy against her pale skin. Her cock stands out from it, vividly purple- he remembers buying it, how she held it up said he made her look at the color too much, so she might as well make him pay- and it's all Clint can do to stop himself from dropping to his knees and worshiping her right there. She surveys him clinically, coldly.

"Tell me why you made the call," she growls, taking a predatory step towards him, her cock jutting out from her hips like a weapon.

"Calculated the odds," he says, tearing his eyes away from her body and meeting her gaze. "Thought it was a bad call to let you get out of range while restrained."

She takes another step towards him, and another, until he's the one backed against the wall. "What were you afraid of?"

He grabs her face and pulls it to his, kissing her hungrily, the same blood and desperation taste of their kiss by the door. She knows what he's afraid of. They both know. But she gets a pleasure from making him say it, making him admit his weaknesses.

"You're not fucking allowed to die," he growls.

"Why not?"

"Because you're fucking _mine_ " he hisses. "And I'm fucking _yours_ and that's the way it is. That's the _deal_."

Natasha nods once. She catches his hand, where it rests on her cheek and guides it down to wrap around the silicone dick she's wearing. "And what do you want?" she asks.

"I want to feel alive."

She kisses him briefly, her hunger for him absolutely breathtaking in its starkness, and moves out of his personal space.

"Get on the bed."

He does as he's told, because he always does as she tells him. He loves doing what she tells him, just as she loves it when he's in control. More than that, they both love the flow of power between them. He gets the same heady rush from obeying her as he does from knowing that he's one of the only people in the world who can make Natasha Romanoff kneel at his feet.

He thinks that it's weird that it works, but it does.

He assumes the position without being asked- kneeling on the bed and bent at the waist, his head pillowed on his arms. Natasha runs one of her long-fingered hands along his flank, cupping his ass gently. "Comfortable?" she purrs.

Clint can only nod.

Her hand leaves him for the few seconds it takes for her to turn and rummage in their toybox, and he smiles at the familiar thought of all the delightful tortures they've accumulated - handcuffs and vibrators and riding crops, all fair play unless someone says otherwise.

She doesn't seem to go for any of those, and instead Clint hears the dull _click_ of a bottle opening. There's a brief pause before her hands find him again, this time the palm of her right land is slippery with lube. She starts teasing him, soft caresses and touches along his ass, down the crack to only flicker at the spot where he wants them.

Natasha was raised in torture, and she's always been a star pupil. She can keep this going for hours, have him bucking and keening and begging before he even knows they've begun. Tonight, though, she's not in the mood to torment him, opting instead to run a finger along the length of his cock, which hangs hard and heavy between his legs.

"You like being fucked, don't you, Clint?" she asks, her voice a kind of silky purr that makes him thrust his hips, desperate for something - anything - more.

"Yes," he breathes.

"And you like being fucked by me?"

"Yes."

She wraps her hand around his cock, stroking lightly. "Then tell me why you made the call."

"It was the right call to make," he grits out, trying to keep the blood flowing to his brain, though he knows it's futile to keep that hope up much longer.

"Was it?" she purrs again, her voice molten in his ears.

All Clint can do is grunt a noise that sounds like _yes_ as she twists her wrist, sending a shock of pleasure up his spine, and coupling it with a hard smack on his ass, the pleasure-pain cocktail exactly what he wants, and she knows it.

A lube-slick finger finds his hole while he's still reeling from her 1-2 punch, and she slides it home slowly, giving him enough time to adjust, but not enough time to get comfortable. It's that little edge of pain, that little spark of punishment, that reminds him that there's a purpose to this, there's something that she wants, and they're both going to have to work for it.

She starts up a pace and a rhythm, begins opening him up with a single-minded intensity that she usually reserves for marks and Sunday crossword puzzles. It's a pace that suits her, slower than he would like. He doesn't mind it, per se, because right now is not about him, not entirely. 

"You have a nice ass," she says, as if she's not knuckle-deep in it, pulling her hand back and adding a second finger.

"Thanks," he bites out, his hips stuttering of their own accord as her fingers graze his prostate, just the barest brush before she pulls back, pressing a kiss to the crease of his thigh.

"Ready to tell me why you made the call?" she asks, nipping at his skin.

"I already have," he snaps, rolling his hips in the futile hope for more stimulation.

She chuckles darkly, her breath warm against his skin. "Oh, Clint," she breathes, and he's sure she says more, but he loses it in a spark of sensation as her fingers graze the spot again and again, sending him into a haze.

He notices when she stops, hears her pull her fingers free with an audible noise, still muttering endearments and filth about how pretty he is spread out for her. His heart is pounding in his throat, air rushing in his ears as he tries to bring himself back to the world.

She reaches between her legs, and Clint hears a soft buzzing as she activates the vibrator built into her harness, watches her back arch as she gives in to the sensation. "You gonna fuck me?" he asks, his mouth dry with anticipation, his eyes glued to her hands as she starts lubing up her cock, watching it go shiny from the fluid.

"No," she grins. "Not unless you tell me why you made the call." Natasha stretches out, long and languid, on the bed, letting him take in the sight as she touches herself, rolls one of her nipples between her fingers as her cock taunts him. "But you can fuck yourself."

Clint blinks, finding the idea upsettingly hot. "I--" he swallows, trying to find some moisture in his mouth. "Okay."

He sits up on his knees and shuffles toward her, stopping to kiss her breast before he straddles her. He'd like to kiss her mouth, he thinks, would like to make it clear that he cares about her, but he resists because resistance is the whole point of the game they're playing.

He reaches behind him, gripping her cock to hold it steady as he lowers himself onto it slowly. There's a pleasant burn to it, a languid slide of her cock holding him open that makes him tilt his head back and groan. She echoes the noise, her hands flying up to grab his hips, to pull him down more quickly.

Clint laces their fingers together and pulls her hands away from him, leaning down to pin them next to her head. "You like fucking me?" he growls against her lips. "You like having your cock in my ass?"

Natasha nods, breathlessly, raising her head to bite down on his neck, coupling the movement with a thrust of her hips that sends Clint's senses spiraling.

"Fuck," he breathes.

"Tell me," she says. 

Clint bares his teeth at her. "It was the right call."

She thrusts again, the angle weird so she can barely get any traction, so he lets go of her hands and sits back, feeling her cock all the way inside of him.

"I won't say it," he snarls, rising up onto his knees to crash back down again, the pleasure sparking behind his eyes. "I won't."

He begins riding her in earnest, his thighs flexing and his breath starting every time her wicked cock grazes his prostate. There was a time when he would have been embarrassed by this, would have had a hard time admitting that he liked being fucked in the ass. He would have denied that he liked his partner to put on a vividly purple phallus and let him ride it, that he got off on being bent over and taken. But it's Natasha, and it's safe, and even if she wants something, she wants words from him, he thinks it's worth the price.

"Clint," she breathes, pulling him back to himself. He glances down in time to see her wrap a hand around his cock. "Say it," she purrs, punctuating with a swipe of her thumb over the head. "Say it and I'll fuck you like you need."

"I love you," he sobs, the sudden pressure on his dick too much, far too much to take.

It's what she was waiting for, what she wanted. She puts both hands on his chest and shoves him. He allows her to move him, taking the momentum and falling backwards, whimpering as she slips out. She surges over him, holding his ankles so he's bent in half, and thrusts again, hard and deep.

Clint shouts as she drives into him, his coherence leaving as he works for it, throws his body into the fucking and sensation. Times like this, with Natasha's cock in him, are the only times he can lose himself like this, the only time he can let go enough to be loud, to shout and whimper and sob with need. He feels the last of his reserves splintering as she continues, stroking his dick in time with her thrusts until he can't hold out any longer.

He tries to say it again, tries to tell her he loves her, needs her, wants her, but the words won't come, all he can do is let out a kind of wail as he comes, his hips working spasmodically, with a mind of their own. She doesn't stop fucking him, keeps moving as he rides the waves of his release, and he hears the noises she's making, fucking amazing noises that he wants to bottle and sell as aphrodisiacs, the tiny grunts and cries as her clit brushes the vibrator, as she takes herself apart bit by bit by bit.

Her orgasm isn't as intense as his, but she still gets there, her head thrown back and her elbows tense and shaking as she looms above him.

"I love you," he whispers again, reaching up to touch her face, and she leans into the caress, leans down to kiss him as her arms give out, and she collapses against his chest.

It's not a comfortable position to hold for long, his ankles up around his ears, and he shifts before she's ready, causing her to whine and nuzzle his chest.

"Shower, baby," he whispers, and she opens her eyes long enough to roll them. He laughs.

"Why did you make the call?" she asks, one last time.

"I love you," he whispers.

Natasha hauls herself up, climbs off him and stretches, letting him lower his aching legs to feel the shocking emptiness she's left in her wake. He's sore, he'll walk funny tomorrow, but it's worth it.

"I love you, too," she says softly, and he smiles. Maybe one day he won't have to work so hard to hear that.


End file.
